Up in (medicinal) smoke

Sunday

Mar 31, 2013 at 6:00 AM

By Dianne Williamson

After the state released its draft regulations for medical marijuana, I fell asleep and had the strangest dream...

In the year 2030, a Budmobile leaves the city’s medicinal marijuana super dispensary on Salisbury Street for its monthly delivery to the residents of Slottsville, formerly known as Worcester. The colorful vehicle is emblazoned with the question “Need Weed?” along with a toll-free number for Dr. James Broadhurst, who overcame his rabid opposition to medicinal pot in 2014 and is now known by his street nickname, Dr. Feelgood.

First stop is the home of Billy Breault, activist and anti-drug alarmist. Breault is armed with a doctor’s note claiming he needs the weed due to an inner-ear-based hearing loss stemming from long-term exposure to his own voice. In the background, the television blares with the ongoing saga of Amanda Knox, who is being tried for the 10th time in an Italian court for the murder of her roommate. Amanda is no longer hot, so the broadcast is slated for the bottom of the news hour.

“She’s a prostitute!” Breault yells. “I demand we pass an ordinance to ban her from Main South! I demand we contact our legislators!” Alarmed, the driver leaves skid marks as he heads to the home of Konnie Lukes, who needs medical marijuana to combat a vocal tic from Tourette’s syndrome that causes her to say “No!” and “I object!” over and over.

“Don’t bogart the ganja, dude,” a stern Lukes orders the driver.

Next comes his busiest and most dangerous stop — the Mass College of Pharmacy Slots Parlor and Good Time Emporium in the city’s Canal District. When he approaches the entrance, a horde of pale and emaciated gamblers stagger toward the vehicle, not unlike the extras in “The Walking Dead.” The pot is intended to enhance their appetite for the Purina Cat Chow they’re forced to eat because they can no longer afford people food. Most are wielding the M-16s distributed like breath mints by U.S. President Sarah Palin, in the aftermath of North Korea’s recent nuclear strike on Austin, Texas.

Frightened, the driver pelts the crowd with bags of pot and jumps inside the Budmobile. On the radio comes a news bulletin: After Amanda Knox is acquitted of killing her roommate, the Italian court immediately sentences her to life in prison.

The Budmobile makes its way to the Slottsville city common, where a gray-haired man named Michael O’Brien skates solitary circles around the Ice Oval. O’Brien reportedly ran the city for years before he was institutionalized for stress in 2020; he now depends on weed to keep him mellow. Or, as he likes to put it, “I am confident that this Class 1 narcotic will continue to produce a positive effect on my cognitive and emotional well-being notwithstanding the ancillary and persistent side effect known as the munchies. In conclusion, someone pass me a Twinkie.”

The Budmobile heads past 100 Front St., former home of the defunct business known as the “newspaper industry.” Newspapers once reported the major news of the day and shuttered a decade ago, after covering the sensational trial of Oscar Pistorius, who accidentally shot another girlfriend he found cowering in his bathroom. The building is now owned by the Mass College of Pharmacy, which has consumed the entirety of Worcester County and large parts of Rhode Island, Connecticut and Guam.

The driver heads back to Salisbury Street and turns on the radio just in time for the big news: Pope Francis plans to come to Slottsville to wash the feet of John Fresolo, but not before dipping himself in a large vat of penicillin. The 16-term state representative continues to insist he won’t resign, despite tweeting a graphic picture of his stimulus package to the Vatican.